


Hekigan

by NoelleAngelFyre



Series: Utsutsu No Yume [2]
Category: Tokyo Mew Mew
Genre: F/M, Family Relationships - Freeform, Memories, One-Sided Attraction (for now), Passage of time, References to Canon, Watching (and wanting) from afar
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-19
Updated: 2018-12-19
Packaged: 2019-09-22 15:44:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,213
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17062499
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NoelleAngelFyre/pseuds/NoelleAngelFyre
Summary: He sees her eyes, blue and bright, and he sees kindness, love, and happiness.





	Hekigan

**Author's Note:**

  * For [leddybug](https://archiveofourown.org/users/leddybug/gifts).



> Hekigan: Japanese for "blue eyes".
> 
> For being the first to comment on my first work for this series, I dedicate this piece to leddybug. :)

A mother knows her son. It’s an adage as old as time, because it holds validity and has been proven countless times. A mother knows her son, she knows her daughter; she knows those who came from her body and were raised by her hand. There is no great scientific explanation behind it—though a few attempts have come about, no doubt—only a simple, well-documented, irrevocable truth.

So when his mother comes to him, one warm day in the season they have documented as “Spring,” while he’s bent-double over a series of charts and compiled data, seeking errors and miscalculations, her company is a surprise but not unwelcome, and the question that passes delicately from her lips is most assuredly not a surprise. Pai has been expecting the question for months. 

Eight months, to the day. It began with idle comments regarding the fertility and gentle forms of their women, was brought into the realm of highly invasive questioning and forced arrangements by some not-so-demure relatives, and now finally reaches its peak with his mother taking a cautious seat at his left, resting both hands in her lap, and offering a single question:

“Was there someone…on Earth?”

She’s a kind and gentle soul, his mother; refined in the art of subtlety and polite inquiry, none of which her sister possesses—which, in his opinion, perfectly accounts for certain traits in both his cousins. She poses the question, then she waits. She lets him have his time; lets him continue rifling through projected holograms like they are the most important and valuable thing in existence. If she suspects his thoughts have strayed (which she must; she’s his mother, and a mother knows her son) she says nothing on the matter.

Pai is grateful for her silence. It allows him to think. It allows him to remember. 

He remembers eyes which changed from sapphire-blue to emerald-green. He remembers soft whispers, warm tears, and questions. He remembers the fragile forms of a body too delicate for its own good, collapsed on the ground, yet still fighting for one more stand. He remembers _Why? Why must we fight?_

_“If we had been born in a different era…”_ and he remembers green eyes growing wide, something that nearly resembled hope shimmering amidst dried tears.

_“No. That’s a joke.”_ He wonders, now, if hope in green eyes hadn’t suddenly dimmed, died, and withered to disappointment. Or was that just his imagination, some haphazard wish to see something in her eyes that wasn’t and would never be there?

“She wasn’t mine.” He finally answers, cold and completely detached from memories which tease and poke and prick at his heart, trying to tease out emotions he otherwise keeps locked away. It’s easy to be aloof, to not care. When he chooses not to care, he doesn’t feel the acidic sting, burning a path through his veins as he remembers her, in the arms of a blonde, blue-eyed, and very _human_ man.

Or, at least, he doesn’t feel it as much.

“Did you want her to be?” Mother asks. From his peripheral, he thinks her hand might be reaching for his shoulder: a gentle and compassionate touch. He takes no chances; allows no risk that she might actually touch him. There was a time, years ago, when he would have permitted it, but no more. He can’t be touched. It only reminds him of _her_ : of glimpses he would take of her hands, and he would wonder what they might feel like, slipped within his, enfolded around his waist, so close, so near, so _her_.

“She wasn’t mine.” Pai repeats, and then he stands and walks away. It’s a cold and callous gesture to his mother, but he can’t. He stands on fragile ground, these days, as six years prepares to become seven. Memories, exiled from waking thought, have overwhelmed his dreams. He sleeps very little these days; when he does, he sees _her_ face. When he dreams of her, he awakens to a bitterly-cold world that feels too empty, too distant…devoid of anything worth holding dear. His family is a bare consolation.

More than once (particularly as of late, as this business of selecting his mate has come about with the same misery as a plague) he’s considered it: going back. Returning to Earth. Even more often, he’s come very close to acting on pure impulse, without a plan, without an excuse, without a valid reason, and doing exactly that. Each time he stops, because he has responsibilities here. His family is here. His home is here. Returning to Earth is nothing but an emotion-fueled desire, and nothing more. He doesn’t act on pure emotion. It isn’t rational.

Besides, she’s probably forgotten all about him.

***

Seven years arrives on a unseasonably hot morning. Seven years to the day, since they departed from Earth, returned to this planet they now call home, and began life anew.

With one anniversary comes another: eight months, two weeks, and four days to the day, since his family began pressing the issue of choosing a mate. He’s past the eligible age, his grandmother laments. There are so many fine young females to select from, his aunt reminds on a near-hourly basis. There’s no reason he shouldn’t be married, staring a family, continuing the bloodline.

No reason at all.

Pai spends as little time around the meal table as possible. He and his cousins were welcomed home, seven years prior, but it was no secret they had ultimately betrayed their leader, aided in his demise, and returned with barely an unkind word to speak against the once-despised humans. There was, for a time, suspicion spoken synonymously with their names. Time was, the business of choosing a mate (and he won’t hold all the pity for himself; Kisshu is enduring the same, if not more so) would have possessed no purpose but to draw them back into proper society, into a realm of existence where they were accepted and the sins of their past were washed away. 

Then, the Mew Aqua began to take root. Barren wasteland suddenly flourished with lush green fields. The clouds parted, winter left the planet, and the sun showered its rays downward to bathe the ground in vibrant golden light. Rivers rushed through valleys in crystal-clear torrents. The land came to life. The people flourished. And all sins were forgiven, because they, and they alone, were responsible for bringing the Mew Aqua to this place and restoring the people.

Now, they are celebrated as heroes. Mothers open their doors to him, to both his cousins, in hopes their presence will bless it. Fathers offer their firstborn daughters for marriage. He and Kisshu are every mother’s dream for her daughter.

It really should be a simple choice.

He retreats to his laboratory, to his sanctuary, and throws himself into machines, into technology, into projects he’ll probably never finish. He seeks distractions, as many as possible. Some as successful, for a time, but ultimately, there is no place safe for him to think of anything but _her_.

He wonders how she has grown. What, exactly, is the growth spurt for a human female: how much do they grow, and for how long? He has grown taller in the absence, an admirable and desirable trait among his people; has she, as well? Do human males find height in a female attractive? Has a human found _her_ attractive? If so, who? Is it the blonde man, always following in her wake (hers and the other four; he shouldn’t be selective in his recollection…it implies jealousy) or is it someone else? Some other male specimen who finds her soft-spoken ways endearing, her notable intelligence admirable, and her physical traits compatible to mating?

Pai scowls at the thought, then shakes his head. _Ridiculous._ How can he possibly be jealous of nameless figures, of faceless strangers, of humans who have been in her company for many a year and possess full rights to claim her as their own?

And yet, he is.

Has she truly forgotten him? Surely, she must have. It’s only reasonable. Memories of him are likely ones she has sought to banish far from easy recollection. She would only want to remember happier things, and sweeter moments, and people who strive to do something other than cause her pain. She must have forgotten him.

She must have. It’s only logical.

***

_Examine agricultural growth patterns and establish continuity discrepancies._ Pai is only grateful neither of his cousins calls him out on such a transparently flimsy excuse. No, Fate is kinder to him in this regard. Taruto plays disinterested, as though he has nothing better to do than follow on, as the humans say, “a wild goose chase” (Pai still doesn’t understand that phrase; why, in the name of common sense and better judgment, would anyone chase a wild bird?) and Kisshu gives him a coy smirk before agreeing and cheerfully inquiring when they’ll leave and what he should pack.

They leave the next night; a simple note with the same excuse is left for their respective families. They travel light with only the absolute essentials—anything else they need, he is quite confident it can be obtained on Earth, just as last time—and depart in the same ship they used nearly a decade prior.

Almost a decade. Three years shy of ten. How much does a person change in such a span of time? Physical transformations aside (he and both cousins have gone through their reasonable share of changes in bodily shape and form), how does one grow mentally, emotionally? If he can find her, will he even recognize her? Will she have changed too much? Will _he_ have changed too much?

He dismisses the latter concern. If anything, he’s more analytical than he was seven years ago. Life is easier when one keeps the company of numbers and cold, hard, uncompromising statistics.

Guiding the ship to its destination is his self-appointed task. He lets his cousins sleep all they like. It leaves him in peace, in gentle silence, alone to his thoughts. His mind crafts an image, based solely on genetics and a growth-simulation, of her face, now, seven years since he last laid eyes upon her. Several possibilities flit across his inner eye, and each one leaves him feeling empty, disappointed, dejected. 

It’s her eyes. The eyes are all wrong. He’s never seen her eyes with happiness, with light, with love and delight. He’s seen fear that he was responsible for creating. He’s seen confusion, and concern, and disappointment. He’s seen the spark of determination even in the face of impossible odds. But he has never seen the kinder emotions, never the gentler expressions that, he’s sure, she must be capable of feeling. Her heart was far too compassionate, far too willing to try and reach him through an iron wall of cold determination to complete a mission which was suicide from the beginning.

On the third night, his continuous cycle of repetitive thoughts abruptly derails into a different course of consideration, and this one drops an icy weight of dread in his chest. Have the years changed that compassionate and tender heart? Have the years, has some terrible wound of unknown origins, damaged her, perhaps irreparably? Has she become as hardened and cold as himself, retreating to the safety of hard science and no emotion? Is it possible? If so, would he even recognize her now, when she could be a perfect reflection of himself?

He steels his startled nerves. _No. Absolutely not._ There is a 98.85% probability that he will find her just as he left her. That she hasn’t changed, and her heart is just as tender and loving as it has ever been. That she perhaps has become even more so, in the years passed.

As for the 1.15% margined possibility that he’s wrong…that’s a risk he’ll take.

***

His intentions were to set up a solid base of operations, ensure it is secluded from any human interference, and then proceed to establish a logical, well-reasoned, rationally-sound plan of action. He gets one-third of the way through setting up their base, and it promptly unravels. Taruto resorts back to his younger years, when declaring himself to be bored, that the work is too hard, that he’s hungry, was mildly acceptable. Kisshu’s mind is so far off in the proverbial distance that Pai doubts it could even be considered in the same planetary system. He fights and struggles for their attention thirty more minutes. And then he accepts defeat with dignity.

Taruto disappears in the same second Pai releases him. Kisshu, surprisingly enough, lingers for a moment. “You’re going to find her, right?”

“Eventually. When the time appears reasonable.”

Kisshu rolls his eyes and leans heavily against the empty doorway of this little cabin. “You are the most unreasonable creature in existence. Live a little. Act on impulse.”

Pai is sure the look on his face is singularly stupid, but he can’t muster anything more intelligent at the moment. His cousin just told him to act on impulse, to take action without calculations and gathered research. He might as well tell him to sprout gills and swim like a fish.

“One of us has to behave like an adult, Kisshu.” He replies, making sure to add a heavy dose of dry disapproval in his tone.

“You don’t behave like an adult, Pai.” Kisshu retorts, smirking a bit. “You behave like a robot.”

The comment is well-deserved, and he’s heard it plenty of times before. This time, though, for a reason he can’t quite determine, it stings. And it stings quite a bit.

“Give it a try.” Kisshu offers as a parting comment. “You might be pleasantly surprised.”

He lets his cousin fade and disappear, then looks around the cabin. This empty, vacant, hollow space; it reminds him, unpleasantly, of his laboratory. Devoid of personality. Nothing but barren walls and untouched surfaces. Whatever purpose this place once served, it has long since been abandoned. He wonders if humans even know it exists. If it suddenly wasn’t here, if it just disappeared, would anyone notice? Would anyone care?

“Onee-chan! Over here, over here!”

His nerves abruptly stand at attention, as does the rest of him. Pressing back into a far corner is not the stealthiest movement, but it accomplishes the task of self-preservation in the presence of an uninvited guest. Also, this corner provides an excellent vantage point: the shadows cloak him in safety, while his eyes can take in all movement outside. Thirty seconds, and then he sees this intruder—no, that isn’t an accurate assessment; by all rational conclusions, _he_ is the intruder, not this young boy. This young boy who…bears a striking resemblance…but it can’t be. Could it…?

“Slow down, little brother.”

Every nerve in his body betrays him: sparking to life, bursting with pain, with delight, with too much. Too much emotion, running wild and unchecked through his veins until his limbs tremble and his heart throbs, pressing much too tightly against his ribcage. He brings both arms tight, locked against his stomach, and pushes himself against the wall. In an establishment with questionable stability, such as this one, any additional pressure on aged planks is almost assured to end in disaster. It’s another risk he’ll have to take. She can’t see him. Not now. Not yet.

But she’s so close. So incredibly close. She’s _right there_. In shadows, she can’t glimpse the way his eyes glide over her every detail with laser-focus, cataloging and memorizing, replacing old memories with new. He sees what all would see: a woman’s body with gracious curves, lean muscles, and soft skin; blue eyes to compliment emerald locks. He sees what any human male would see.

But not really. No, he sees more. So much more. He sees tiny scatterings of pearl-pink across the arms she now leaves bare. He sees a woman where there once was a child, and all his calculations have come together, completed in her presence. He sees her eyes, blue and bright, and he sees kindness, love, and happiness. She considers her brother in his explorative curiosity with fondness, with joy and delight. And he wonders how she can put her emotions on display, so transparent and unguarded. How she can permit herself to be so vulnerable.

Her sibling is excitedly pointing out the interior of the cabin, though her gentle hand keeps him from straying over the threshold. He’s babbling on about art, about poetry, about inspiration…?

“This would be perfect,” the boy says, “for your quiet place! Away from the apartment, from school, from everything and everyone. You could make your dolls here, and write, and sketch!”

_Quiet place?_ The tinge of familiarity is unexpected, for him. Pai knows what it means, what value such a place can hold for the soul, what a sanctuary it can be. He requires it because interaction with his family is, for lack of more descriptive terminology, difficult. He doesn’t communicate in a way they readily understand. He’s long known this, accepted it, and accommodated accordingly.

To know she, Retasu, kind and gentle-souled creature that she is, needs such a space, spreads warmth through his chest. It’s unfamiliar, unexpected. It frightens him.

“Do you like it?” the boy murmurs, looking to his sister with large blue eyes that match hers. His is the look of adoration, a child’s delight and hope, and love for the one in whose shadows he now stands. He is not young (at least sixteen years of age) but his emotions, too, are set on blatant display.

“I do.” Retasu (though, Pai questions if he holds the right to be on such a first-name basis with her) murmurs, gliding long and delicate fingers through his dark green locks. “Very much, dearest brother.” Her other hand sets a reverent caress upon faded wood planks, as though this establishment is worthy of respect simply through existing.

Pai wonders, perhaps, if she might find _his_ existence enough to warrant her respect.

They leave a few minutes later, and, against better judgment and following the same impulse he’s rejected many a time before, Pai follows. He meshes with shadows and shies from the light, tucking himself just out of sight. He doesn’t possess enough trust in humans to believe his appearance would not create a public scene.

Retasu takes her brother to a large building, an establishment meant for furthering human education. She smiles at him, promises to be back at a certain time in the afternoon, and takes her leave. Again, Pai follows her to the library, a place he well remembers from prior encounters. They have rebuilt this building, repaired all inflicted damage, and it looks nearly untouched. She enters inside, and now he has a decision to make. He can’t very well stroll inside like another client interested in perusing and making selections from their available literature. He could transport himself inside, avoid the front doors and settle inside, but he can hardly risk materializing in front of some unsuspecting human. ‘Public scene’ would hardly be an applicable term to describe what would transpire.

So he settles in place, taking refuge in shadows, wrapping himself in silence. And he waits.


End file.
